


From Mathematics Further Off

by Amy



Category: Austin & Murry-O'Keefe Families - Madeleine L'Engle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-20
Updated: 2005-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy/pseuds/Amy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg sees them all fading into patterns. (title from Emily Dickinson)</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Mathematics Further Off

**Author's Note:**

> Written for another_juxtaposition

 

 

**one**

The baby was born one year, three months, and seventeen days ago, and Alex looks down at her fondly. His daughter doesn't remember being born, but he does; remembers her head cresting, and him standing by Kate, whispering softly to her. They had counted the seconds between contractions, and then, when it hurt too much to focus all their energy there, counted in binary, in hexadecimal.

Labor had taken hours, and by the end Kate was covered in sweat and her face was almost as red as her daughter's, and Alex's hands were sore from being held so tightly, but neither of them cared, because they'd brought a beautiful baby girl into the world. They'd named her- Margaret- and before the hour was up Alex had been whispering to her, a thousand nicknames sliding off his tongue, Megahertz and Megaparsec and all the other words he'd teach her as soon as she was old enough to learn.

Today Meg is four hundred and seventy-three days old, and Kate says that it's probably still too early, but he doesn't care. Kate is curled up on a lab stool and staring at the test tube hanging over the Bunsen burner like it might explode at any moment- which is, of course, possible. Alex is stretched out on the lab floor, staring intently at his daughter while she plays with a set of blocks.

"What's the red, Megatron?" Alex asks her. "Find me the red block."

He watches Meg studying the toys in front of her carefully. There are dozens of them, and she has a one out of four chance of getting it right. Eventually, she selects a red square, and holds it out for Alex, who takes it from her, and immediately showers her with praise. She's done this before, and even if Kate insists that he's just been suggesting things to her subconsciously, he's certain she's getting it. Today, as soon as she looks like she's about to be distracted, he says "Can you give me a second red block, Meglet?"

She blinks at him, long lashes batting over chocolate-brown eyes.

"A _second_ one. Second means two. Two is the number after one. It's twice as many. It's how old you are, isn't that right, Meglet?"

Kate shakes her head. "You know, babies can't count," Kate says. "Most of them can't even sort their toys by color yet."

"Our Meg's special, though," Alex says. "Isn't she?" He smiles at Meg, who beams up at him toothlessly. "You're special, Meg, aren't you?"

She burbles at him and selects a green block. Alex has to fight down his disappointment, and he accepts the block gladly.

"She's fifteen months," Kate says. "She's already ahead of the curve." And then, "She'll get it soon. You know that."

"I know," Alex says. "I know."

 

**two**

"You're going to have a baby brother or sister, Meg!"

The voices are joyful, and Meg stares up unblinkingly at her parents. They are both radiating happiness. They look almost exactly like they always have, except that Father is trying to start to grow a goatee and Mother's stomach is a little bigger than usual, but it's the type of change that's normal, she thinks. But they're so excited

"Doll?" she whispers. Meg likes her dolls. She has lots of baby dolls and sometimes she pretends, Mother being the mother and Father being the father and the dolls are her little siblings and Meg is the oldest.

"No, Megatron," her father says. "A little boy or a girl just like you."

Meg has a dollhouse and it is hers and it has a mother and a father and a few little boys and girls and it would be just like the doll family.

Except that if there's another child, then there would be two of them, Meg and a second one, a Not-Meg, a second half of the family that is just as important but is not her. And when it was a doll that was okay, when it was something that could be thrown in the toy chest and forgotten, that was fine. But a baby cannot be put in a box. A baby would be here _forever_.

A baby would get half of the cookie dough when mother was baking and half of Father's hugs when he comes back from a trip with his job. A baby would cry and scream and wake everyone up at night, even Meg, even though Meg was a big girl who could sleep through the night. A baby would mean that Meg wasn't the baby anymore.

Meg sucks on her thumb, a baby-thing that Meg's grown out of, but Meg is still the baby for now. She knows Mother and Father are waiting for an answer but she doesn't have one for them right now.

"Are you excited, sweetheart?" Mother asks, prompting gently.

Meg pulls her hand out of her mouth and uses it to smooth down her skirt. One plus one plus one, that is her family. One plus one plus one plus one, that is what they want it to turn into, and that's someone else's family not hers. Not. Hers.

"Meg?" Father asks.

Now Meg looks up at them. She knows what answer they want. She also knows the only answer she has. "I'd rather have a doll."

 

**five**

"The babies are crying again," Meg announces.

She's big enough to sit at the counter on her own, but her legs still don't reach the ground. Still, at least it's her own chair, not a high chair like the twins are still in.

Meg doesn't _dislike_ her brothers, the way she dislikes string beans. She just thinks they are two extras and Meg doesn't really think her family needed extra; it was hard enough with just three of them. But the boys seem to make Mother happy lately.

And that's important. Because, lately, Meg certainly isn't. Even now, Meg is trying hard to think of a reason not to show Mother the note from her teacher, which talks about the problems Meg started in class.

Meg didn't _mean_ to start a problem. It's not like she was _trying_ to. She was just sitting in class, and they started math class. Meg wasn't stupid; she didn't shout out the answer. They were working on questions, easy ones Father had done with her dozens of times years ago: adding and subtracting one-digit numbers. So Meg sat quietly and started doodling in her margins while thinking differently. One plus two is three. Three lines would make a triangle. (She'd drawn a triangle.) Two plus three would be five, which was a pentagon; she'd drawn a pentagon off the edge of the triangle. She drew a square inside the triangle, then counted the angles, all of them, inside and outside the square. Tried to draw a picture of a shape with that many angles.

When her teacher noticed, she'd accused Meg of drawing and not paying attention. And Meg had frowned and said no, she understood the work, ask her any question, and the teacher said "The one on the board?" and then Meg recited, like it was all kid stuff: one plus one is two, one plus two is three, one plus three is four, and she kept going, and she passed one plus eight, which was as high as the class had gone. The teacher told her to stop, and Meg didn't listen, just kept going; one plus fourteen is fifteen, and then she switched, fifteen plus fourteen is twenty-nine, and no, she wasn't showing off, any more than any of the other kids were when they read out loud from their readers, just because Meg didn't know how to do _that_ yet.

The teacher said she didn't know what to do with Meg and sent her to the principal's, and _he_ said he didn't understand why she was causing so many problems when her parents were supposed to be such good people, like Meg couldn't be a problem if her parents were good people, and she'd gotten recess taken away for a week, starting tomorrow, and she knew- just knew- that once she gave over the note Mother would give her a cookie and milk and assure her that they still loved her, but in the middle of her reassurance one of the twins would start crying and it wouldn't be about Meg anymore.

And her class would still hate her.

"I know, Meg," Mother says. Mother looks tired a lot now, which makes sense, because if Sandy isn't crying then Dennys is, and neither of them is nearly as good at stopping as they are at starting. And then Mother is soothing Sandy, so, just like that, Dennys starts.

Meg can tell them apart, even though they look exactly the same, because they are her brothers and it's easy. Mother and Father dress them differently, but even if they were both just toddling around in diapers like they used to she'd know.

Meg slips out of her chair and tries to soothe Dennys, but he just starts crying more.

"Meg!" Mother says. "Take your snack to your room, please."

"I was helping," Meg protests.

"Meg, _please_ ," Mother says.

Meg takes in the scenes, and then flees the room. She thinks her mother calls after her, but it's drowned out by Sandy and Dennys's wails.

She doesn't blame them. Meg refuses to cry until she reaches her own room, and once she's there, she curls up in a ball and sobs.

 

**eight**

Meg doesn't mind this new baby nearly as much as she minded the first two. No one is there to encourage Charles Wallace when he's crying or to throw food with or anything. No one is there to distract Mother from what's important, either; Charles Wallace is an oddly quiet child, who knows what he needs and the best way to get it. Whenever he's awake, his eyes are always open, watching. But not hurting anyone. That's what's important.

The house is nicer now. Mother is calmer, and the twins are excited about the baby, so they're far less disrupting. They spend time as a family now, and it's really as a family, not just the twins and the parents with Meg as an afterthought, because they are all sets now: Mother and Father, Dennys and Sandy, Charles Wallace and Meg.

She secretly thinks that Charles Wallace is the best of all of them. That she is the luckiest, because everyone else is matched with someone who has flaws but she has Charles Wallace and he is better than everyone else put together. Charles Wallace, of course, has it the worst; Meg cannot find a single other girl to come over and play with her dollhouse, never mind someone who could understand why placing things into patterns and pairs is so interesting (even though it is, of course; when things are in sets then there are all sorts of things you can organize), and she realizes that she is sub-par compared to any of them. Meg can't even get through a day of school without being yelled at for being too disruptive or rude. But Charles Wallace isn't like her; Charles Wallace is good. Charles Wallace is perfect.

At least, Meg thinks so. But only secretly, because no matter how dumb she is (and she knows that she's dumb), she does _listen_. So she doesn't just think her brother is perfect; she's also terrified that something is wrong with him. She likes him too much for everything to be okay. And she's heard Mother and Father saying that he doesn't act like a baby should; he's too dignified, maybe, too sure of himself.

She's pretty sure that somehow, it's her fault; somehow she's tainted him.

Mother goes in to make sure the twins are washing behind their ears, and while she does, Meg sits by Charles Wallace's crib. Mother and Father think she's worried something will happen to him, but mostly she just likes the company. Meg feels better about herself when she's near Charles Wallace, warmer and more secure and almost like she's a better person. She does math problems, the ones in her homework and the ones that are higher.

She'd gotten in trouble in class again. They'd been doing work as a class, working out a question on the board 'til the teacher called on someone, and she'd gotten bored. Forty-six plus forty-four is ninety. Forty-six minus forty-four is two. That meant that forty-six times forty-four is forty-four squared plus eighty-eight which is two thousand and twenty-four, which is almost forty-five squared, but not quite. Forty-five squared is one more, which means forty-five squared minus one-squared would be forty-six times forty-two, which doesn't mean much of anything, really, except-

And that was when her teacher called on her, and she said "Two thousand and twenty-four", except by then the teacher had already moved on to another question, thirty-nine plus twenty-eight, which was one thousand nine hundred and fifty-seven more than the right answer, so everyone had laughed, and then she'd gotten angry, and shouted that just because they didn't understand didn't mean she was wrong.

Except that the teacher had then gotten even angrier, then, and asked why she couldn't just behave normally for once, and Meg had said that if this was what normal was she didn't want any part of it, and then she got sent to the principal's again and this time he gave her a week's detention. For each day she'd have detention she'd have to miss the bus, and then she'd have to walk home because Mother could never drive to pick her up when the twins and Charles Wallace needed her, plus all that work in the lab, so for Meg it would be over a mile each day, and all the while she'd be followed by the big boys from detention who'd yell "freak" at her when they got close enough, and she'd break into a run and veer into the woods, where she'd find a tree and cry until she could get home and find Charles Wallace again.

But he would listen to her while she talked about her math. At least that was something.

 

**twelve**

"Father's not coming home soon, is he?" Meg asks at dinner, and even just saying the words makes something seize up inside her. Every day before, she's asked when he's coming home, or whether Mother's gotten a letter lately, or _something_. Today she asked to play football, and when the boys said no she got into a fight at school in the yard and got yelled at in class for the way her clothes were torn and ruined, and one of the girls in her class said something not-at-all-quietly about how just because Meg's father left didn't mean her mother didn't have to dress the _children_ , and Meg had stewed all day, taking all her energy to not lash back out at her, and in that time she had a math test where she was so angry she missed easy questions that she knew her math teacher would never let her forget, and she ended up skipping her last classes just to get away.

When she got home Mother had been sitting in the lab while Charles Wallace sat curled up on the floor, his eyes not at all focused on the picture book Mother had procured for him, but rather looking up like he'd expected Meg, even though she was half an hour earlier than she should have been. When she slammed into the lab Mother just said "Oh, _Meg_ " and offered a hug, even though they both knew that Meg was skipping school and her clothes were dirty and the bruise under her eye was starting to come into clearer focus.

The twins had been thrilled, because they got to walk home on their own, which they never got to do, even though they were in third grade, which they both assured Mother meant they were practically adults. But all afternoon they kept sneaking looks at Meg's bruise, and she couldn't tell if the looks were critical or admiring, and either way, she was sure that Father wouldn't be pleased.

Father wouldn't be pleased with her now. Meg's sure of that.

"Father will be home when his project is done, Meg," Mother says calmly, as though it weren't the absolute worst thing she could have asked at dinner, and somehow that increases her shame even more.

The twins are gaping at her, but she gets the distinct feeling that when they retell the story to each other it will be shock at her stupidity rather than her audacity to say it.

Charles Wallace doesn't seem to think anything is wrong with her question. But then, he wouldn't. Charles Wallace would be on her side even if she was wrong.

"Why don't we know when that is?" Meg asks. She doesn't understand how no one else understands the problem: that they were all even and now they are odd (even more odd than usual now, she thinks sourly) and everything in the family seems off now, sharp points and angles where things used to be smooth.

"Father is busy with the government, Meg," Mother says.

"Right," Meg says, and she sounds unnaturally grumpy, even to her own ears.

"If you don't trust Father-"

"I do trust Father," Meg interrupts. "It's physics I don't trust."

Math is fun- math is _easy_ \- because there's always one answer. Physics is a black hole of knowledge, where things get tossed in and not everything boomerangs back. Meg just doesn't want her father to be one of those things that gets lost in the shuffle.

Charles Wallace smiles at her, and she tries to smile back, even though it hurts.

Her mother tells her to eat more of her soup.

 

**fifteen**

Meg misses Calvin more than she should. Or, well, perhaps it's exactly how she should; all the other girls at school whose boyfriends went to college talk about missing _them_. But all of those girls talked about it for perhaps a week or two, a month at most, and then went right back to lusting after someone else at Regional, while Meg can't even imagine the thought. Even Mother and Father clearly think it's a bit much, although they don't say so to her face; she knows because Charles Wallace knows, and sometimes he has the good grace to not block her from everything he thinks.

She's in science class when she realizes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Calvin is thinking about her, that Calvin _loves_ her, and that makes her giddy and nauseated, all at once: giddy because he's Calvin, and nauseated because thinking of Calvin means thinking of herself in the best light possible, and right now is so far from that that she could scream. She feels stupid here, and ungainly and unseemly and certainly not beautiful, the way that Calvin seems to think of her.

Her thoughts are disjointed, crazy, desperate; science makes her feel feeble, even when she knows she shouldn't.

It's bizarre, then, the next thought that hits: _It's like math, Meg. Look for the math._ And it takes a split second to realize that it's Calvin, and she's been kything without even realizing, and he can kythe right back. And it's so amazing that she wants to laugh out loud, but she doesn't, because she's still in science.

But even as she sits there, just absorbing, the formulas on the board seem clearer. More logical. She focuses on the symbols as a complicated form of algebra, emphasizing the pluses and minuses and equals signs over the laws that seem far too complicated anyway.

 _That's it, Meg, you're doing wonderfully._ And she feels warm and at-home with the feeling.

Calvin's like math, Meg thinks; normal and reliable if you first glance at them, nothing so horribly special. But if you dig deeper, there's so much in there. Like the color of Calvin's hair when the sun hits it just right, or the way he laughs. Like all the paradoxes in math, the ones that keep it from being too simple because you have to find the way to simplify them. Meg likes those, not because they're easy but because they're so not easy. Because they make you reevaluate the whole of something, just because you have one little detail. It's Mr. Jenkins and the shoes all over again, every day, just thinking about Calvin: every inch revisited with every single breath.

It's love, Meg realizes with a start.

 _I love you too,_ as loud and clear as if he were standing next to her.

And Meg can't stop smiling through the rest of her day of school.

 

**twenty-four**

Tom is in the room, and Calvin, but everyone else has gone home, even Mother and Father, because Sandy is getting back to the states in a few days and Meg's assured them that she'd rather they go, even though Mother is convinced that the baby will remember that none of her grandparents were there beyond her first week. But honestly, Meg likes it best like this, just her and her husband and one of their closest friends and her daughter.

Meg had always heard that mothers glow during pregnancy, but it's Calvin's face that could light up a room, Calvin who can't seem to stop beaming at everyone around him. He's so proud of them, his wife and his daughter; Meg can see it in his eyes. Tom is smiling at all of them. He had said several times that he'd leave the second they felt constrained, but neither Meg nor Calvin does; mostly, they feel closer and more connected than ever before, all held together by the bond of her daughter.

 _Her daughter_ \- the words still seem strange. The family feels fuller than it did a week ago, stronger and deeper and far more real; before it was Meg and Calvin, and now it is Meg and Calvin and Polyhymnia, and the girl's size is in stark contrast to the length of her name.

Meg is exhausted. She lies back on the pillows on her old bed in this new house she and Calvin are still getting used to, her daughter curled up in the crook of her arm, and the room shifts in shades of black and white and gray in that tell-tale way which signifies she may fall asleep at any moment. And while Calvin and Tom keep talking, science and spirituality blending on their lips, Meg sees them all fading into patterns.

It's fitting all the paradoxes she's studied; two parts equaled a whole only a week ago, but today it's not a whole until you have three pieces. All of the pieces are the same size, and the whole has not stopped being _one_ , but it's a bigger one, and better. Theory and practice are colliding.

She has a daughter. She has a family.

It's like kything, kind of, this type of togetherness. She can feel Calvin, feel Tom, feel Poly, as though they are all extensions of herself. And she understands now, more than ever, what it means, how numbers mean nothing and everything in the face of family.

Sleep comes easily, when it comes, and she falls asleep to Polyhymnia's heartbeat, and dreams of bright red blocks.

 


End file.
